“Troth she is, Mr. Roberts, and silver to the back o' that.”
“What?” said Sam, looking at him with comic surprise. “What do you mean by that, you ferret? Why don't you add, and 'brass to the back of that?' By fife and drum, I won't stand this to Beck. Apologize instantly, sir.” Then breaking into a hearty laugh—“he meant no offence, Beck,” he added; “he respects and loves you—I know he does—as who doesn't that knows you, my girl?”
“What I meant to say, Mr. Roberts—”
“Mrs. Roberts, sir; direct the apology to herself.”
“Well, then, what I wanted to say, Mrs. Roberts, was, that all the gold, silver, and brass in his majesty's dominions—(God bless him! parenthetice, from Sam)—couldn't purchase you, an' would fall far short of your value.”
“Well done—thank you, Dunphy—thank you, honest old Dunphy; shake hands. He's a fine old fellow, Beck, isn't he, eh?”
“I'm very much obliged to you, Mr. Dunphy; but you overrate me a great deal too much,” replied Mrs. Roberts.
“No such thing, Beck; you're wrong there, for once; the thing couldn't be done—by fife and drum! it couldn't; and no man has a better right to know that than myself—and I say it.”
Sam, like all truly brave men, never boasted of his military exploits, although he might well have done so. On the contrary, it was a subject which he studiously avoided, and on which those who knew his modesty as well as his pride never ventured. He usually cut short such as referred to it, with:
“Never mind that, my friend; I did my duty, and that was all; and so did every man in the British army, or I wouldn't be here to say so. Pass the subject.”